Consumer Guide:Radical Comfort

Hey Mr. Sax Man, you're the hidden king of rock and
roll, or whatever it is

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm
Not (Domino)
The great thing about this album is how untranscendent it is, as if
these lads know the guitar-band pleasures are cons. Sing-along tunes?
Breakneck momentum? Next-big-thing ambition? Saturday-night swindles
every one. Instead Alex Turner and crew evoke club life as it is
actually experienced. They sound like not knowing the doorman, like
moving on a girl you think isn't pretty enough, like missing the bus
in a leather jacket that doesn't keep out the cold. Many details are
too U.K.-specific for Yank-yob gratification. But aesthetes will come
to enjoy Turner's nuanced adenoids and his bandmates' thought-through
arrangements. A MINUS

BURNING SPEAR: Creation Rebel: The Original Classic
Recordings From Studio One (Heartbeat)
Before he started wailing to wake up the dead, Winston Rodney tried to
find a place within the harmony trio format imposed by Studio One's
Clement Dodd. This is the record of that struggle--not always as
songful as Dodd (or we) might prefer, but whenever you tune in,
somebody will do something that makes you ooh inside of a
minute. "Door Peeper"? "This Population"? "Weeping and Wailing"
(natch)? "Creation Rebel" itself? Those are songs. The "hip hip
hooray" of "What a Happy Day"? Saddest ever
recorded. A MINUS

JAMES CARTER ORGAN TRIO: Out of Nowhere
(Half Note)
Though 2004's Live at Baker's Keyboard Lounge is as warm a
blowing session as he's laid down, this all too self-sufficient
virtuoso gravitates to concept albums, in part because he's no
writer. This can be tricky--his Billie Holiday tribute is dreadful,
and his Pavement covers reflect poorly on the alt-rock groove. But the
organ-trio format so derided in jazzbo land suits his vulgar gusto
perfectly--it's made for showoffs and delights in the impolite sounds
he can extract from any number of saxophones at will. My favorite pits
his avant-honking tenor against guest Hamiet Bluiett's avant-honking
baritone on guest James Blood Ulmer's "Highjack." Ulmer also gets to
sing "Little Red Rooster." The vocal-less finale is "I Believe I Can
Fly." The organist is Gerard Gibbs. A MINUS

JAMIE LIDELL: Multiply (Warp)
Although slotted as soul or techno according to the interests of the
slotter, this veteran U.K. dance music producer is neither. He moves
in more select company: less genius than late Chic or recent Prince,
but far more daring than Daniel Bedingfield or Craig David. Although
Lidell's voice lacks muscle and butter, he knows how to launch a
falsetto, and the beats on "A Little Bit More" and "The City" should
not be played within earshot of anyone wearing a pacemaker. He goes
out on a wan five-minute ballad called "Game for Fools." But before
then he's stated his creed with a lyric recommended to all white guys
in the future-funk game, which also isn't for fools: "I'm a question
mark, walking talking question mark/But what is the question again?"
A MINUS

SONNY ROLLINS: Without a Song: The 9/11 Concert
(Milestone)
I counted: pianist Stephen Scott and trombonist Clifton Anderson solo
for 15-plus minutes apiece on this 72-minute album, which documents a
9/15/01 Boston concert down to the introductory remarks and standing
ovations. Understandably, the material includes three meditative
standards, and unsurprisingly, Rollins meditates up a storm at several
speeds. The historical moment only intensifies his religious feelings
about music; he's humble and masterful, questioning and joyous,
swinging and polyrhythmic. Scott fits in, running changes with a
satisfying physicality. But the heightened circumstances make clear
that Anderson's main job in this band is to give the boss breathing
room. And under the circumstances, there's too much of
it. B PLUS

RUN THE ROAD 2 (Vice)
Got no idea whether this is true grime because I never knew what grime
was to begin with. The Brit accents on the pseudo-triumphalist,
vaguely Jeezy-sounding four-cameo opener are grime enough for me--most
gripping grime I know, in fact, and pretty damn fine Jeezy-sounding
pseudo-triumphalism to boot. Offenses against purity abound--girl
choruses and duets, guy who argues endearingly if unconvincingly that
"shanking" isn't commercial, and a Nas fan with a pink penis who tells
a mildly grisly story backwards whilst strumming an acoustic guitar
very hard. Letdown: Sway, touted as this year's, you remember, Dizzee
Rascal. Disappointment: paucity of Jeezy-sounding
pseudo-triumphalism. A MINUS

THE DAVID S. WARE QUARTETS: Live in the
World (Thirsty Ear)
It's a fine cosmic joke, the way radical sounds turn comforting as
they grow old. I've played these three CDs for atmosphere during a
Vermont retreat, for solace after a disturbing afternoon with my
demented 90-year-old dad--for the organic integrity of live free, for
chaos rendered beautiful. Tune in anywhere except the one bass solo
per disc that William Parker gets for holding the world together and
you'll hear saxophonist Ware or perhaps pianist Matthew Shipp or
briefly one of the three drummers creating music that eschews the
signposts, anchors, and trivial pleasures pop fans can't and shouldn't
do without. Shipp is a lovely man and a wide-ranging artist, but in no
other context is he so solid, and Ware's ideas flow nonstop. After all
these years it's clear that he commands one of the great sounds in
tenor sax history, very nearly on a par with Rollins, Coltrane,
Webster--huge yet lyrical, and so loose. I prefer disc two for Hamid
Drake, who drives harder than Susie Ibarra or Guillermo Brown. I
recommend "Aquarian Sound" Parker and all, "Part Two" of Freedom
Suite, and, definitely, "The Way We Were." A MINUS

Dud of the Month

EDITORS: The Back Room (Fader)
Denying prior knowledge of Joy Division, Echo & the Bunnymen, and
Interpol, Staffordshire University's answer to the Arctic Monkeys cite
as influences early R.E.M., Elbow, and the French Doors--not Jimbo in
Paris, a Brooklyn band that shares members with, you know, Black
Lipstick. I believe them, too. Though this strain of heartsick gravity
was unknown on earth before Ian Curtis and the goth/new romantic
inundation he heralded, it has since been imprinted on every Caucasian
adolescent in the English-speaking world. And as leader Tom Smith
demonstrates, it needn't be morbid or suicidal. His message is often
sanely chin-up--as in "Open your arms and welcome people to your town"
and even the relatively dark (if sonically comic) "You don't need this
disease you don't," 36 repetitions of which constitute virtually the
entire lyric of "Bullets." Someone should tell him about the Human
League. C PLUS

Honorable Mention

David Murray & the Gwo-Ka Masters: Gwotet (Justin
Time): He needs his ka drummer and his diaspora brass, but the
heroes are guest co-tenor Pharoah Sanders and trap drummer Hamid
Drake, Yanks both despite their sobriquets ("Gwotet," "Ovwa").

The Scotch Greens: Professional (Brass Tack): They
tried the country and they tried the city, but speed was the only
thing that made them feel better--as bluegrass and punk, respectively
("Rumspringa," "Professional").